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When they said I could go back to her, I didn’t hesitate.
I had had a great love. Something most people can only imagine, or read books about. If Juliet was the sun, Sylvia was the supernova. She made me laugh. She challenged my ideas, respected my ideals. And she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
What I didn’t stop to listen for, were the conditions. I couldn’t go back as me—as Daniel—I had to be reborn.
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“Hey. It’s Charlie, right?” he was hanging out the window of a silver Mercedes Benz.
“Uh… yeah.”
“My name is David, I’ll be your driver for the night.”
Charlie checked his phone even though he’d already had his app open. “Nah, man… I’m waiting on a Honda Accord.”
The driver’s lip pulled up in a quirk. “You’ve been randomly selected for a luxury upgrade, free of charge. Unless you, uh, want to pay for that Accord ride instead. 28th and 2nd, right?”
The chime above the door rang and I shoved the book I was reading into my bookbag.
An inordinately handsome young man had walked in and was now leaning on my counter. He nodded to the backpack as I straightened up. “Whatcha reading?”
“Um… just something a friend leant me.” I didn’t want to admit what it was—one of the million YA paranormal books bracing the shelves these days, one of the very books that was driving up our clientele—it’s hard to find true love when everyone is obsessed with vampires and werewolves.
I cleared my throat. “Welcome to Other Dating. My name is Charity, how can I help you?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Charity? And are you an angel, Charity?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d been hit on by an inordinate amount of Others in my time. It had long lost its ability to make me blush.
The first time he put his lunch down across from her Helena froze. Everything in her seemed to bristle. People usually left her well enough alone and she was perfectly fine with that. If he tried to talk to her she knew her practiced response and had it ready: death glare, on ice. Every nerve was on high alert, ready to put it into play.
But then, without a word, he pulled out a book and sank into it, absently taking bites of his food between turning pages. He seemed to barely notice she was there.
Helena was relieved. He was new, so he probably didn’t know that people didn’t talk to her. He would soon enough. But for now, maybe he’d just seen a mostly empty table, in the sea of human noise that was their cafeteria.
The next day, she was sure, he’d have heard all about who she was and why he shouldn’t sit with her at lunch and he’d join the rest of the busy, loud room in ignoring her. It was fine. She opened up her own book and shook off the nerves still jolting in her veins and went on with her lunch.
But the next day he was back. And the next. She was bold enough to glance at him once or twice. She thought maybe he was slow. Otherwise what was he still doing, sitting directly across from her so calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world? There had to be something wrong with him. Nothing else made sense.
It took until the fourth day to realize he was in her English class. She had the grace to sit tucked into the row against the wall in English. She answered questions if called upon, but she rarely was. Mrs. Callaghan seemed to empathize with her misanthropic ways, and mostly left her alone, or gave her quietly enthusiastic shoulder-squeezes as she handed back her papers.
Suddenly someone was answering a question about Lady Macbeth and her sleepwalking self-incrimination. And the answer was intelligent and thoughtful, and coming from the mouth of the boy who had made a habit of sitting across from her at lunch.
And that’s how she learned that his name was Travis.
And how, as he caught her staring at him after he’d given his answer, she first saw him smile.
At lunch the next day he when the bell rang he closed his book—he was at the end, she’d seen, from her furtive glances at him—and slid it a few inches across the table, then picked up his tray and started to walk away.
“You forgot this,” she said, speaking to him for the first time.
Her heart sputtered in her chest when he just grinned at her. “No I didn’t. I think you might like it.”
Moonwalking with Einstein by Joshua Foer, a book about memorization tricks and anecdotes. She did like it.
She was determined to return the favor and do it well. He had set the bar pretty high. She didn’t want to counter with another nonfiction, so what she slid in his direction the next day was high fantasy. He lifted an eyebrow at her, and let the book he had brought with him drop back into his bag.
The second time he slid a book over to her, it had a scrap of paper in it with his phone number and “Hi. :)”
You have to have heard how no one at school likes me by now, she texted him after she’d finally found the courage to send him a hi of her own.
I like you, what do I care what they think? he sent back. Do you care?
And it was so much harder to, knowing that he didn’t.
He asked her to go see a movie on a weekend in November, and he offered her his coat, but she didn’t need it, because Helena was the type of girl who dressed appropriately for the weather.
It took them both a little bit of time to get their words out, but walking the aisles in the bookstore or library seemed to help. They both had a lot of opinions on books.
People still called her freak sometimes, and even huffed at them when they walked down the halls. But then his hand would find hers, and graduation was in May. Austin wasn’t far, but it was a far sight better than here.
All they could afford was community college, but it was something. And she’d heard they had the biggest indie bookstore in the world. Helena thought it sounded just about perfect.
Ribina was bored.
In fact, bored was almost her favorite pastime. As the second daughter of the seventh family of Illindor, bored was her general right. If she had been a first daughter, or from one of the top five families she might have had civic duties to occupy her time. If she had been from any of the lower families she may have had to work for her keep—perish the thought.
As it was her life was one of wealth and opulence, and of waiting until one of the appropriate sons caught her interest enough to tempt her hand. Marriage could be fun, according to her cousin, Shadria. “Just find someone who is active enough for the bedroom and loyal enough to stay out of anyone else’s. So much the better if he has a head for conversation but as he’s like to be away on politics most of the year, he may as well not.” Continue reading
My most memorable birthday was probably my fifteenth. It started out wonderful. Saturday. No school. Chocolate chip pancakes. My little brother had a sleepover with his Scouts team, so even he didn’t ruin it, though I’m sure he would have if he could have.
And did I mention? Mark Cotter, the second-hottest guy in school (the hottest is Tad Claybourne, but he’s a jerk)had just asked me out on a date.
Bear in mind that when I say hottest, I mean on the Brains/Looks Qualitative Scale. Ted Claybourne was about a 6/10, giving him a 6 for Brains and a 10 for Looks, a cumulative 16, but not really the most attractive thing when you took into account his less-than-charming personality. Mark Cotter, on the other hand, was about an 8/7. More evenly balanced. And probably the nicest guy at school. All in all, a much better catch.
I brought him as my date to my party. It was spectacular, with fairy lights leading all the way from my grandmother’s back porch, far into the forest behind. The music and guests were all more beautiful than I could have hoped for. I think Mark was really impressed. He kissed me, even.
There was just one big problem… he thought I was human.
He moves a dusty patch of earth behind him with every step. His steps, once eager, had slowed to determined, mechanical movements.
He didn’t know how long he’d been walking. A month? A year? A lifetime.
Always he was pulled on by a waft of air, reminiscent of her smell, her hair, or a flash of movement in the distance like the swish of a dress. Continue reading
A little science fiction, in honor of Mr. Bradbury passing away earlier this month.
I miss color.
That’s the one thought going through my head as I scan item after item for customer after customer. It’s been a busy shift, what with the holiday and all. Everyone in the whole colony seems excited except for me.
I miss color.
It had seemed so cool when the opportunity first came up. I mean c’mon, I was eight. Who didn’t want to live on the moon? It had seemed like the best birthday present ever. We would be the very first, and Dad was going to develop moon-growing vegetables and Mom was going to design a drill to well deep into the surface to harvest moon ice.
Plus there was a rocket ship ride. Complete with a whole hour of anti-gravity free time. That feeling of floating, of not being weighed down by yourself or towards anything else, was the most amazing thing in the world.
I even got to wear a spacesuit. Had to, in order to get from the ship into the airlock. Fifteen minutes to put on a suit I got to wear for about two and a half. That was pretty cool, too.
Our first year was in tents, as the building happened. They’d built the entire Air-and-Grav dome around absolutely nothing to begin with, because it cost less to have people work after the dome was built, than outfit a bunch of people in suits for long periods of time. It seemed like camping. Which is fun for about two weeks. But then you kind of miss running water and warmth. The AG dome is protected from the harsh heat in the sun and cold in the shadow times, but the temperature is always either chilly or hot. And really, there wasn’t much here but rocks and dirt at first, so exploring wasn’t as exciting as it sounded.
It’s impossible to run in glass slippers.
I don’t mean difficult—I mean flat-on-your-face impossible. In fact, flat on my face is exactly how I ended up when I attempted it. One heel dislodged, my toe was still trapped, and there I was, sprawled on the marble steps, the bounty of layers from my dress thankfully breaking my fall.
The palace guards were on me in the blink of an eye. Surely someone trying so hard to get away had a nefarious reason for it, and they wanted to stop it.
That was how it happened that after an hour and a half of dancing with me—and by dancing I mean all but carrying me as he twirled; it’s impossible to dance in glass slippers also—the prince abruptly met my true self, strong-armed by two men the size of trees.
My laptop charger is dead! I’ve renegaded my husband’s netbook for this post, but I won’t have it for long. Unfortunately because of all this ridiculousness, I completely forgot to write a story for this week. You probably noticed it missing yesterday. I’m so sorry! I’ll be back next week. Hopefully. Read good books!
xoxo,
~Lisa
Isabelle
thephoneix
Lisa Asanuma
Tales From The Hollow Tree 